Victory
by Fulgance
Summary: Draco beats Harry to the Snitch. Elated, he forgets where he is and kisses Harry on the Quidditch pitch.


_Draco beats Harry to the Snitch. Elated, he forgets where he is and kisses Harry on the Quidditch pitch._

* * *

**Victory**

* * *

"Good luck, Draco."

Draco swallowed down his irritation and forced himself to smile back at Pansy, who was sitting across from him at the breakfast table. She was the only one who still bothered to wish him luck on the morning of a match with Gryffindor. Salazar, even his own team didn't believe in him anymore.

"Thanks," he said tightly, looking down at his pumpkin juice with sudden distaste.

It really wasn't fair to let loose on her the way he had last time she'd mentioned Potter. She was only trying to be nice.

It wasn't nerves, exactly, because he already knew the outcome of the match. No matter how well he flew – and he _was_ a good Seeker, damn it –, how much practice time he set aside, or how determined he was, he would _never_ win against Potter. Draco couldn't outfly the youngest Seeker in a century. Hell, he couldn't beat him in anything except Potions – and, really, what pride was there in _that_?

"You can win this one," Pansy said unconvincingly. "You _can_ – this is Slytherin's best season in years. We massacred Hufflepuff last time –"

"_Everyone_ massacres Hufflepuff," Blaise said from beside Draco. "They've got an awful team this year."

"– and the way you caught the snitch was incredible," Pansy finished, shooting Blaise a look. "Everyone said so."

"Everyone except Gryffindor, because they've seen more spectacular with Harry bloody Potter," Draco said.  
He knew he sounded bitter and childish. But, for Merlin's sake, he was _allowed_ to. There was something completely unfair about Potter, who had never touched a broom in his life before the Remembrall incident, being able to play better than Draco, who had been flying since he was old enough to walk.

"Well, he _is_ pretty good," Blaise said.

"Most of it's luck."

"No one has _that_ much luck."

"You're not helping," Pansy snapped, and Blaise leaned back and grinned, raising his hands in surrender.

"Draco doesn't really care about losing," he said. "So long as he gets to watch Potter sit on a broom for a couple hours, he'll be fine."

Draco felt himself flush and he shot a glare at Blaise, whose grin widened. Blaise was the kind of person who gave Slytherin its reputation – the kind that really _was_ cunning, sly, and all those things. He knew everyone's secrets, or at least enough of them that he could make the person of his choice uncomfortable with a few well-chosen words. For that reason, Blaise was no one's friend and no one's enemy. No one trusted him enough to enjoy spending time with him, but no one wanted to risk getting on his wrong side, either.

It was the first time he had hinted at knowing this particular secret, but Draco wasn't particularly surprised or worried. Blaise enjoyed having power over others. He could use secrets to his advantage, but he never blurted anything out for no reason.

But, Merlin, was this embarrassing.

Thankfully, the comment seemed to fly over Pansy's head. "Don't talk about _losing_," she said testily. "What kind of an attitude is that?"

"A realistic one?"

Draco groaned and laid his head on the table. "_Really_ not helping, mate."

"Aw, I'm only kidding. You know you're a good Seeker. Now go out there and prove it."

"We believe in you, Draco," Pansy said, and Draco couldn't help but feel stupidly grateful to her.

* * *

It _wasn't_ nerves, he told himself again as the two teams lined up on the pitch, facing each other. He was practically toe-to-toe with Potter, who smiled at him when he caught his eye. At least, Draco thought it _might_ have been a smile. He wasn't sure what it meant, either. Was it _Hey, good luck, no hard feelings_, or was it _I'm going to enjoy kicking your arse and we both know it_?

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and they kicked off, Draco immediately heading to the opposite side of the pitch as Potter, high up so he could see the whole pitch. He floated around in slow, lazy circles a few times. Matches usually started off slowly for Seekers; it was rare for anyone to spot the Snitch before at least a few points had been scored.

Slytherin did pretty well in those first few moments of the match. Good possession of the Quaffle, neat passes, nice maneuvring around the other team's Chasers. Draco stopped scanning the pitch for a few seconds when his team scored the first goal – he let out a whoop of laughter and brought his hands together, as though the match were already won. And as he was cheering, his head thrown back, he saw it.

A tiny glint of gold, shimmering as though only half-there, almost invisible against the red-and-gold trappings of one of the pitch's towers.

Draco shot forward, instinct settling in. Dimly he heard the commentator mention his name amid his excited babbling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape swoop down toward him: Potter. _But I saw it first_, he thought, furious, leaning forward so he was practically kissing his broom. The Snitch had shot downwards trying to evade them, but Draco's eyes refused to leave it, even as it sped away, dangerously close to the ground.

The wind was beating his face, but Draco wouldn't so much as blink. It was there, just _there_, a few feet away – he held his hand out – Potter was closing in on him, he could practically _hear_ him behind him –

"Malfoy –"

Draco's fingers closed around the Snitch at the very moment he tipped forward, overbalanced, and was thrown off his broom. He slammed into the ground almost painfully, the breath knocked out of him, still clutching the precious ball, and lay there for a moment in complete shock, too surprised to scramble to his feet.

It was a spectacular catch, one of the fastest spottings of the Snitch _ever_ in a Hogwarts match _–_

It was a _victory_.

Murmurs of disbelief spread across the crowd like wildfire in seconds before they erupted into an enormous cheer as Slytherin realised what had happened. Draco felt more than saw his team float down to surround him, clapping him on the back, pushing him deeper into the grass and dirt of the pitch. He didn't care. The feel of the tiny golden ball fluttering weakly in his hand was exhilarating. He'd just caught the Snitch against Harry Potter.

Potter.

Draco pushed himself up to his knees, then the rest of the way up, aided by one of his teammates who was screaming in triumph. Still clutching the Snitch tightly, he scanned the rest of the pitch. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. Potter had landed not ten feet away from him and was still standing there, his broom lying in the grass, his face a study in disappointment and shock. He was covered in sweat and dirt. His team stood a little way off, their expressions devastated.

Draco caught Potter's gaze and held it, and Potter's lips curled into the tiniest smile. A smile that acknowledged defeat and said, _Congratulations_. A smile that added a more complex emotion to the elation Draco already felt. His eyes on Potter, he brushed past the Slytherin team and moved until he was face-to-face with the Gryffindor Seeker. The small smile didn't leave Potter's face. It may have been tinged with disappointment, but Potter was a fair enough player to appreciate someone who had beat him fair and square.

"Don't let it get to your head or anything, Malfoy, but – good game," he said.  
And he held his hand out.

All right, maybe Potter failed to grasp the full symbolism of the moment. Maybe their encounter on the Hogwarts Express in first year hadn't left as much of an impression on him as it had on Draco. But Draco, looking down at Potter's outstretched hand, had the fierce desire not to take it. It would be the simplest, pettiest form of revenge, to refuse this gesture.

He looked back up at Potter's face. Potter was still smiling, that infuriating little smile. Something flickered in his green eyes, as though he knew exactly what Draco was thinking. His hand wavered, then lowered slightly.

Draco reached out and grasped Potter's wrist, drawing him in closer. Then he grabbed a fistful of Potter's robes, yanked him down, and crushed their mouths together.  
Potter's eyes went wide. For a moment he was completely still, his lips desperately slack against Draco's. His hands rose, resting on Draco's chest as though to push him away, but there was no force behind the gesture and it barely registered in Draco's mind. And then – and _then_ – Potter made a small sound in the back of his throat and he closed his eyes and his hands rose the rest of the way to encircle Draco's neck, pulling him closer. He parted his lips slightly, and that was when it _really_ started.

The kiss was intense beyond Draco's wildest dreams – and, Merlin, had he dreamed of this. One of Harry's hands was tangled in his hair and he was leaning into the kiss, accepting it, _wanting_ it, not caring who was watching – _watching_ –

Draco jerked back suddenly, his hands slamming into Potter's chest, pushing him away as roughly as he had pulled him to him. Chest heaving, head pounding, he stared into Potter's green eyes.

The bleachers had long gone silent. The cheers had stopped as quickly as the complaints had. The weight of hundreds of stares was heavy on Draco's shoulders, but he couldn't look anywhere else but at Potter. Potter and his vivid green eyes, his stunned expression, the way his lips were still slightly parted. Potter, speechless for once.  
His victory soured, Draco turned on his heel and ran.


End file.
